Losing Grandma, part 4

Last night I was not a good granddaughter.  I'm not perfect.  There was a flash mob at a local bar for my high school class and I went. I was only going to stay an hour and I didn't get home until midnight.  A lot of people knew about my grandma from Facebook and gave condolences.  I was still sick too.  But I missed the formal reunion in 2007 when my dad died; I didn't want to miss an informal one because of my grandmother.  Staying home wouldn't have made my grandma alive again.
I did write the eulogy before I left.  It was hard to sleep when I got home, I was keyed up from drinking a lot of ginger ale (sugar--I usually drink diet Pepsi) and from seeing so many old friends.  When I got up this morning I went to print the eulogy and my desktop computer had crashed and my laptop (where I wrote it) isn't connected to the printer.  It's still crashed; I had to print from my husband's desktop.  Another thing to deal with.
My husband has caught my illness and I feel really bad about that.  So he was home sick in bed while I was out with my old friends.  This morning he was dragging and had to deal with dressing up and driving me and my mom to the funeral home at 9 a.m.
Grandma looked great in the casket.  The funeral director had plumped out her cheeks a little and she actually had a smile on her face, like it was a big joke that instead of celebrating her birth we were celebrating her death.  I think she looked so nice because she didn't suffer.  She was basically dead at my mom's house and they just kept her body alive for another day.
The visitation/service was very nice.  A lot of people came, probably close to 50.  Only one of my friends, but I didn't expect anyone to take time off from work.  My mom's work friends and walking friends and best friend.  My mother in  law and my husband's sister and her fiance.  My mom's cousins and some of their kids.  A few of my grandma's surviving friends. One of my cousins is now a hair dresser and is going to do my hair--it's freaky because she was born when I was in high school or college, I could be her mom.  I think she's the youngest of our generation.
And one surprise.  My grandpa had one sibling left, his sister Elsie.  I wanted to find her.  I did find her online in North Branford but I don't have a North Branford phone book and my mom said not to pursue it because she wouldn't come.  My grandma had sent her a letter and never gotten a response.  I felt really bad about not calling her; I thought she'd want to know her sister-in-law had died.  Then toward the end of the viewing in walks this tiny ancient lady with a cane, being held up by her son, and my mom almost fell out of her chair.  It was Aunt Elsie.  I hadn't seen her in probably 20 years, if not longer.  Obviously she saw the obituary in the paper.
The priest knew my grandma and I was really expecting something great from him, but he read basically the exact same thing as the chaplain did on Tuesday--my father's house has many mansions and the new version of the 23d Psalm which hasn't got the resonance of the King James version. Nothing personal. We invited him for lunch but he declined.  I read my eulogy (below) and then her brother spoke extemporaneously, from the heart, about what a hard worker my grandma was, how his earliest memories are of her going off to work at a shirt factory where she was paid piecework to pin and iron shirts, standing up all day, to help support the family during the Depression.  He talked about special foods she used to make--icebox cake and fruitcake--and how he looked forward to eating both, as they both had to mature before being eaten.  He did choke up a few times but ultimately he was okay, as we all are.
The service at the grave site was very short, basically just a prayer of farewell.  She's with my grandpa again, body and soul.  There's one spot left in the plot for my mom (and my dad's ashes).
The food at the restaurant was very good, we had about 20 people at 4 tables and everyone enjoyed everything.  We stayed there about 2 hours.
Now I've got to bring my cats to the vet, and my mom's going to come along, and we're going to make a side trip back to the cemetery to take some of the roses.
Rest in peace, Grandma.  I love you.  Say hi to my dad and Grandpa and Aunt Bert and everyone.  Hug and kiss all the animals.  

~~~~Eulogy~~~~

The last time I talked with my grandma was Sunday night.  She seemed to be in a good mood.  We were playing a word game, and when my mom took the letter she wanted, my grandma sassed her, saying “Oh, why don’t you just go home!” and laughing.

We made plans for her 94th birthday next week.  She didn’t care that she was going to be 94—“It’s just another day” she said.  I asked her where she wanted to go eat on Friday—today—and she waved her hands and said “I’m happy to go anywhere” and we decided on Red Lobster because she likes the shrimp.  But then I guess she made other plans without telling me, and she’s having lunch somewhere else today, without us. 

My grandma was a generous woman.  She worked a Mike-Rowe-worthy dirty job at a cigar factory for almost 30 years (and because of my exposure to that cigar factory, I will always love the smell of raw tobacco) and never complained even when her hands turned yellow from handling the giant bales of leaves.  At night, with those same tired discolored hands, she would knit, crochet, sew, and tat the most incredible lace.  When she retired, she donated the skill of her hands to the North Haven Senior Center.  They would give her material and yarn and patterns and she’d make quilts and lap robes and bags and funny little dolls for them to give away or sell.  Some of the material and yarn was ugly and yet she put the same care into the finished product as she did with the prettier goods.  My hands look just like hers, but I was never able to pick up even rudimentary knitting skills, unfortunately. 

My grandma taught me not to be afraid of ghosts.  That sounds weird, I know.  But when I was little, my grandparents moved into a haunted house.  It was not an old creaky spooky mansion, just a regular ranch house where the previous owner had died, but not moved on.  Her name was Mrs. Winters.   Mrs. Winters would walk up and down the cellar stairs and rattle door knobs and that was about as menacing as she ever got.  In fact I believe she was a kindly ghost, because when I slept there, she would cover me up.  I was never afraid of her because my grandparents were so matter-of-fact about her presence. I suppose I thought everyone’s grandparents lived in a haunted house.  I believe that when my grandpa died there, he took Mrs. Winters with him, because I never felt or heard her again.

My grandma was quirky and generous.  When I was a teenager, she sat me down and said if I ever wanted to try a cigarette or to drink alcohol, she would buy it for me and share it with me.  She didn’t want me sneaking around and getting in trouble.  I think that’s exactly why I never did—because of her offer.  It might not have been “cool” to smoke or drink with Grandma, but I never felt the urge to sneak booze with friends either.

I had a bad cough every winter for most of my life, and she made me a bottle of homemade cough medicine.  She drew a label that looked like a pharmacy sticker, with infinite refills and the ingredients.  She liked everything to be hand-made when possible.  When my friend had a baby a few years ago, my grandmother crocheted a receiving blanket as a gift.  My friend entered it into the Durham Fair, and it won a prize, which she gave to my grandma, who was shocked that anyone would think her simple blanket was worth any honors.

If you know me well, you know I inherited something else from my grandma besides her hands.  She was stubborn.  When I was little, she had a fancy red coat.  When something happened that made her angry, she spoke up. She’d put on that coat and go to whatever place she was upset with, and speak her mind.  When we said Grandma was “putting on her red coat” we meant “going on the warpath.”  I don’t have a red coat, but I’ve been known to venture down that warpath a time or two!  My grandma’s red coat is long gone, but she never stopped speaking her mind or being stubborn.  When her doctors told her to take her blood pressure medicine or she would have a stroke, she said she didn’t care.  She made her choice.   She was ready to go.

She lived almost 94 years.  She had slowed down a bit toward the end, but she was still mentally agile—when I took her to the bank recently, her checkbook was only off by less than a dollar—and she didn’t need help with anything.  Only her very last day on Earth wasn’t a good one, and trust me, it was only a bad day for her body.  Her soul was already gone.  She had 34,324 good days and who can ask for more than that?

Lena Gresto Nana

February 23, 1918

February 15, 2012

Losing Grandma, part 3

You know your family has been using the same funeral home too long when you call and they know who you are.  "Oh honey you sound terrible, take care of yourself.  Go back to bed."  I'm still sick as a dog, this isn't right.
Went shopping with mom for funeral clothes and spent $30 at Wal-mart on ginger ale and various cold remedies. 
The obituary is in the paper and online at the funeral home.
Text (I left in the errors, I'm too sick to deal with them):

LENA G. NANA

February 23, 1918 - February 15, 2012

Lena Gresto Nana, 93, of 191 Pool Road, North Haven, passed away Wednesday, February 15, 2012 at MidState Medical Center, Meriden. She was the beloved wife of the late Louis A. Nana. Born in West Haven on February 23, 1918; daughter of the late Adelino Gresto, Sr. and Santina Petrucci Gresto. A resident of North Haven since 1922; Lena had worked at the former Uhl Cigar Company for 29 years until her retirement; was a very active member of the North Haven Senior Center where she did numerous charitable works including knitting and crocheting; was a volunteer exercise coordinator and a parishioner of St. Barnabas Church. Mother of Ann-Shirley Rizza of Wallingford. Grandmother of Roberta Piedmont and her husband William. Sister of Albert J. Gresto of Fullerton, CA and the late Andrew and Adelino “Joe” Gresto, Jr. Also survived by nieces, nephews, great nieces and great nephews. Predeceased by her son-in-law Robert Rizza Funeral services will be conducted in North Haven Funeral Home, 36 Washington Avenue, Friday morning at 11:00. Family and friends may call from 10:00 until time of service. Interment will follow in the North Haven Center Cemetery. Should friends desire memorial contributions may be made to the CT Hospice, Inc., 100 Double Beach Rd., Branford, CT 06405.

We don't know if she would have changed the hospice donation to Alzheimer's in honor of my dad, so we left it as is; the assumption is that she was thinking of my grandpa (who died of cancer and hospice came to the house and helped care for him as he died)--she designed her obituary in 1997.  Honestly, make a donation to either if you wish, they both do good things for sick people.
Tomorrow at this time we'll be at the restaurant eating and remembering Grandma and it will all be over.

161 Eulogy and service (with photos)

This is the eulogy I wrote/read for my father. I could barely read it, I was crying so hard. Everyone said they were fine until I got up there, and then I made them cry. That wasn't my intent. I had read it over so many times that I thought I would be okay. But I wasn't. Standing there, with the picture board, the flowers, and of course the marble box with my dad in it, was very different from sitting on the couch with my cats.

---

I tried to come up with an analogy for Alzheimer’s, something simple yet expressive, to start this out with. I thought of something from my favorite book, about how the people around us are the chisels which carve us into who we are, and that’s not bad—we are indeed shaped by those around us, and my dad influenced me, obviously, very much. But I’m not here to talk about me. I want to talk about my father.
He had a hard childhood. His aunt, Aunt Bert, took him into her care and did her best to make that childhood bearable. He grew into a kind man, a quiet man, a good man. He wasn’t flashy or loud; he didn’t hold your attention. He was a background kind of guy. I never realized how much he did, invisibly in the background until I moved out. I found out the garbage does not magically take itself out every night, the cat box doesn’t get scooped and there is no Soda Fairy to make sure there are always a couple of cold bottles of soda in the fridge. So when you come to my house, and there’s no cold soda, the cat box is dirty and the garbage can full, that’s because my dad doesn’t live there!
Seriously, I have learned to scoop a cat box and put soda in the fridge, although I still have trouble with the trash. But it really gave me an appreciation of my dad that maybe I didn’t have growing up.
I can remember that, when I was really little, in the living room we had 3 lights on a pole, and he used to make shadow animals for me and tell me stories about them, especially Jerry Giraffe. He would come home after a 12 hour day at work and still have time to tell me those silly stories, and when he wasn’t there I’d try to tell them to myself, and now I’m a grown-up, and I still tell stories. When I cried because I wanted my daddy to stay home with me, he’d say “I’m going to makes some dimes for you,” and ruffle my hair before he went off to work.
He was a successful car salesman, winning salesman of the month and year awards many times. I think it was because he wasn’t a high pressure salesman. He took the time to explain everything carefully, lay it all out, and let people make their own decision. And he remembered. If you bought a car from him, and a few years later he saw you in Stop and Shop, he’d know what car he sold you, what color it was, probably what you traded in, he’d know your name, and probably your spouse’s name. In fact, one time he was at a car show, and a guy was showing a car my dad had sold him brand-new, and he had the original sales paperwork with my dad’s signature on it…and my dad remembered him, even though it had been more than 20 years.
People like my dad—quiet people who get the job done without any fuss–are really the cogs and glue of society. You rely on them without realizing it. They are strong, but they never complain about their burden. Even after he got Alzheimer’s, he didn’t complain. He apologized. I’m sorry, he’d say. I can’t remember things anymore. I can’t talk so good anymore. One day, I asked him for his opinion on something, and he said, deep down inside, I don’t know anything anymore.
He didn’t know who I was, but he knew that if it was dark out, he should walk me to my car with a flashlight “so nothing bad would happen”, and then he would shake my hand and ask “when are you coming again?” His instincts were always to be helpful, to hold doors and carry packages. He was still my dad, but blunted, truncated.
That brings me back to my analogy. I imagined a really beautiful, perfect statue, left out in the wind and rain for centuries, to be worn away, until it’s only retained the shape of a person, not any of the individuality. That’s what Alzheimer’s did to my father. It wore him away, all the sharp edges and crisp points that made him Bob Rizza, who loved his family and his pets and his raspberry bushes, and turned him into a fearful person with a vague and confused stare.
I can only hope that all that was worn away from him in the last few years has been restored to him on the other side, along with his loved ones that were already there. The last time my dad really spoke to me was a few days before his second fall. He was in the hallway of the nursing home. I walked over to him and he threw his arms around me and hugged me and said, “I love you.” He didn’t want me to leave. I asked him to hold my keys and he took all the keys off the ring and returned the ring to me empty. When I fixed that, he pushed me back into the chair beside him and said “Not enough.”
No, dad, it wasn’t enough.

---

I asked two of my friends to read poems. Chrissy, a writer friend of mine, read this:

---

REMEMBER
by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
REMEMBER me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

---

which I got from this site.
My other writer friend, Lizzie, has a grandmother in end-stage Alzheimer's, and she cried through this bit of an old Irish song, "The Parting Glass" when she read it:

---

Of all the comrades e'er I had, they're sorry for my going away.
And all the sweethearts e'er I had, they wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls unto my lot, that I should go and you should not,
I'll gently rise and softly call, goodnight and joy be with you all.

---

It is really a drinking song, but I read it a few years ago and thought it sounded more like a funeral song to me.

---

And oh, the people who came! Lots of my friends, of course (and you really find out who your friends are when someone close to you dies and you see who rallies to your side and who vanishes), old co-workers of my dad, my mom and me; neighbors; family, friends, and people you'd never expect: the plumber. The accountant. Two ladies my parents met while walking. My best friend's parents and her mother-in-law. There was even one person my mom and I didn't know at all. I couldn't understand who this woman was kneeling in front of the picture display and crying. My mom didn't know her either. I felt awkward saying "who are you?" but I asked anyway. She owns a store next to my father's friend's store, and my dad used to help her do postcard mailings in exchange for cookies. She said she just did a mailing and was thinking how she missed my father's help, and then she heard that he died. My mom and I both knew she sent home cookies with him, but we'd never met her, and she was genuinely sad to hear about his death.
And the refrain we heard over and over was "He was such a nice man. He helped me so much. He didn't deserve this."
My mom had thought that there wouldn't even be ten people there, and the room was filled when I was reading (sobbing through) my eulogy. And some people had came and left, just saying hello and not staying. I just tried to write down from memory everyone that was there and I came up with 45 people I could name, plus some neighbors whose names I don't remember. My mom counted 50 names in the register, but some I listed by memory didn't sign. Call it 60. Over half a hundred people came to say goodbye to my father. Plus all you online, who never met him OR me. Call it a hundred, then, since I get 50 hits a day on average here.
My grandma, of course, had to make it about her. She didn't want to go and "be a burden." She'd be "in the way." My mother basically forced her to go, and she sat there at the end of the row with her "puss" face on because she didn't want to be there. My best friend left early to go back to my mom's house, start the coffee, deal with the dog and let everyone in. She brought my grandma home. Later on she said to me, "I never want to have your grandmother mad at me!" Apparently all my grandmother did was complain all the way home (luckily only a mile). And then when the dog barked at Beth, my grandmother made a huge fuss over that, saying the dog was going to bite her. Beth has dogs, knows dogs, and Ace has met her before and not bitten her--in fact, he likes her. Beth was happy to practice her sign language on my father's cousin and her husband (she is deaf from an illness in her infancy; he is deaf from a car accident when he was 12) and to be a hostess--she excels at things like that. She is also the one who did most of the work on the memorial boards. I'll devote an entry to them later.
The minister had a little too much God and Jesus in his service, but I just ignored most of that--take what you can use, leave the rest. He read two really nice poems, one about remembrance and The Dash. (When I find out the info on the other poem I will link to that one too.) My mom enjoyed his service, so that's good enough for me.
The flowers were pretty, but not at all like we described/ordered, and they were $300, so that made me crazy. I designed a pair of tall, thin spare bouquets, with a mixture of bamboo, greenery, and 3 white lilies in a bud vase. Instead, my pair was 5 lilies each with a bunch of pine sprays, and the bamboo was hidden, and the vase was big and clunky, and the arrangement was not at all thin (although it was tall). My mom wanted a long, thin spray of flowers--lilies to match my pair of vases and red roses-- to put in front of the cremains casket, and we said "nothing that sticks up to block the pictures". It was huge and clunky and stuck up everywhere and was so big it couldn't be put in front of the marble box. :(